


and tell me how it's looking, babe

by snsk



Series: 30 min request thing [8]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: BONCAS, M/M, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 22:31:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8685802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snsk/pseuds/snsk
Summary: “Hello,” Phil responded. “Ready to go home?”“How forward of you,” Dan said, batting his eyelashes at him exaggeratedly, laughing, drunk and sweet about it.(for the anon who requested: My request for the 30 min series is them returning home/to a hotel after the BONCAs and being all soppy and you know.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> yes, anon. i know.

The screams were probably drowning out the rest of his speech, Phil was sure. _He_ certainly couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Although that might have been the rush of adrenaline, fizzing up his veins, spiralling itself dizzily up into his head, was that even how adrenaline worked who even knew, and before he’d known what what he’d been going to say he’d been saying it, something about spending the year with one person. Not being able to see Dan, lights bright in his eyes, but beckoning out into the crowd anyway. Something about how the person should come up too.

Then the screams were deafening, but it was alright, Dan was suddenly there, right by his side. Dan was speaking into the mic, fast and self-conscious and familiarly awkward-funny, and all Phil had to do was agree. Something about not being able to be apart. Wasn’t hard not to agree. Phil very much felt like leaning into him. The rush was still coursing through his blood. The light was warm and blinding; the crowd was a blurry huddle of faces. Everyone was still cheering for the creator of the year.

Every video Phil had done this year had Dan in it, editing or idea or a smile up and away from the camera. He’d insinuated himself into all the crevices of Phil’s career for seven years, and he’d filled them, too, all the ones Phil hadn’t known existed. Phil wasn’t sure if he’d managed to accurately convey that to everybody who was cheering right then. He hoped - he hoped he had, just a fraction.

Then they were walking off the stage, right direction this time, and he was gripping the hashtag sweatily in his grip, and it would go next to the ampersand in their home tonight, and wherever they ended up in the next year or so.

They were handed their top hats and canes, and as they shrugged their jackets on, Dan caught his eye.

His gaze was steady, hot. In the relative backstage dimness, eyelids still giving off sparks from the spotlight, Phil stilled, caught in it.

“Nice speech,” Dan said, low and suddenly too-near for where they were, and Phil wondered what he would see if he looked away. Probably busy people with headsets, bustling themselves around them, telling them they were on in a few. But Dan took another step forward, and gently straightened his lapels.

“Thank you,” Phil responded, belatedly. “I improvised.”

“Five!” somebody called, and Dan smiled at Phil, wonderfully, disarmingly sweet.

“I noticed,” he said, and moved aside for Phil to jog back onstage.

 

At the afterparty, people kept coming up to them to congratulate them on the wins and compliment them on the performance. Phil heard “Wow,” a lot, and a few “You guys actually have a whole routine”s, and it was a bit strange, these people who he kept tabs on, whose work Dan obsessed over, not knowing what they’d been doing for the past year, or, well, pretending. But to make up the difference he heard more than enough genuinely nice things, and Tom even started singing a rousing few bars a few drinks in.

“Please shut the fuck up,” Dan begged, trying to hide behind his glass. Tom slung his arm around his shoulders. “Own your accomplishments, Daniel!”

Dan contemplated the drink he was hiding behind. “Maybe I should drown myself in this.”

PJ, standing a little off to the side with Phil, grinned. “You wanna collect your boy before he tries to drown in his tequila?”

“Oh, he’s having fun,” Phil said. “The sparkles will alert me if he starts on that.” Dan was lovely and loose, giggling and a lot more comfortable in an average social setting full of people whose judgements he incessantly and unnecessarily worried about. The alcohol was helping, probably.

They both watched him for a bit. When Phil turned back to PJ, he found PJ’s attention already on him again, his expression thoughtful. “Phil - that was - it was very nice. What you did up there.”

“Yeah,” Phil said. He tried to figure out how to frame it to PJ. Dan’s hair was rucked up from when he’d carelessly run his hair through it after the song, sweaty, happy, leaning against Phil on the short drive to the party. “Sometimes I want to do so much more. And then sometimes it’s so - well, that was a sort of compromise. But I hope he understood. I hope everyone did.”

PJ lifted his glass, saluted him slightly. “So do I, buddy.”

They drank to it. The music pounded, something new and slightly too shrill, _I’ve got a full tank baby and I’m ready to drive…_

“Ugh, now we’re all sappy,” Phil said.

“Speak for yourself, Philip. I entrapped all my emotions in a certain mechanical doohickey contraption years ago. I let them out to play on Thursdays.”

“So: Pandora’s Box?” Phil asked, and sighed deeply. “That’s hardly original, Peej, perhaps you’re losing your touch.”

“You are a cruel man, Phil Lester, but imagine,” PJ said, “having to water them, and feed them other people’s emotion, like fertiliser, or else they will die, and it is either you never have emotions again or-”

They launched into a companionable discussion on the emotion fertiliser black market, and the subsequent dystopian cold-blooded future, until Dan came up to Phil’s side.

“Liguori,” he said, smiling warm and dimply, still sweet, so sweet. “Lester.”

“Howell,” PJ said. “Have you been taking shots each time somebody’s mentioned disco balls or sunglasses?”

“Howell,” Phil said, fond, and Dan watched him with melting eyes as he said, “Yes, Peej, I have, and it’s why there are two of you, and you’re both spinning.”

“You aren’t even looking at me,” PJ informed him, sounding faintly exasperated and extremely amused.

“’course I am, Peej,” Dan said. He wasn’t, but he did now; he turned to PJ and made sure his shoulder was brushing Phil’s, sparkly and solid. “What were you two discussing?” he asked.

“Your favourite topic,” PJ said. “A Future Without Feelings. I think it has a ring to it. Like Doctors Beyond Borders.”

“That _is_ my favourite topic,” Dan agreed, very seriously. “Why wasn’t I summoned?”

PJ was distracted by Hazel calling him over. Dan waved, and Phil said to him, “Yeah, go ahead, see you tomorrow, right?” and they were left alone for a bit, in the corner of the room, which felt much more familiar.

“Hello again,” Dan said happily, definitely tipsy.

“Hello,” Phil responded. “Ready to go home?”

“How forward of you,” Dan said, batting his eyelashes at him exaggeratedly, laughing, drunk and sweet about it.

 

They had special limos to take the Guests of Honour back. Phil, clambering into one after waving Martyn and Cornelia goodbye, slumped into its buttery-soft seats and heaved a sigh of contentment.

“I could get used to this,” he said.

Dan was telling the driver their address; he settled back beside Phil now, and the partition rolled up in answer to something Dan asked, driver nodding and smiling at them.

“What did you say,” Phil said, a bit suspiciously.

“Nothing specific,” Dan said, brightly, “just asked if the partition meant the back was soundproof.”

And he deftly started undoing the button on Phil’s pants, made short work of the fly.

Phil was decidedly scandalised and decidedly 0 to 60 in 3.5 and decidedly tipsy enough to ignore the former compunction and let his dick take over. Dan knew how to do this _so_ well. It was his favourite thing, he’d made a seven-year long study out of it.

Still. For appearance’s sake, just because the driver could be listening, Phil let out a scandalised gasp.

“Dan!” he hissed, low and weak. He was a big fake, was the thing. He was already arching his hips up as Dan worked his thumb over his slit, already growing rapidly, sloppily slick. Dan didn’t have much room to work with, and he couldn’t see what was going on, what with the dimness and his hand being inside Phil’s pants, but he knew _exactly_ what he was doing.

Phil’s dick was so familiar to him that he could do this just by touch, and nothing else.

Phil was terribly hard at the thought. Dan let out a half-giggle, and brought his body up even closer, nuzzling into Phil’s neck with a content sigh.

“They could see,” Phil whispered. He had invented the phrase _token protest_. He was turning his lips to Dan’s hair, kissing, scenting. Dan smelled like hairspray and expensive cologne and victory. The rush still trembled in his blood. If the crowd could see this.

If only.

“Yes,” Dan agreed, and twisted his wrist, a manoeuvre that shouldn’t have been possible.

Phil gasped, _loud,_ and then caught it in his throat, so it sounded like he was choking.

“Good,” Dan continued, now proper biting at his jawline, going quick, focused, his hand, his beautiful long strong lovely fingers, Jesus, this boy, “so everyone will know. Good. Now everyone knows, you made sure they all knew, back there. That we-”

Phil said “Yes,” and it mixed with Dan finishing: “-that it’s _us_ , only us, that I’m yours,” and Phil said, “ _Yes_ ,” and clutched at Dan’s stupid shiny jacket and pushed his face into his hair to muffle the horribly satisfied sounds and tried not to spasm too much, in case it rocked the limo oh god what if it rocked the limo-

“-that you’re mine,” Dan said, as he licked his hand clean, as he slung his arm around Phil’s shoulders and buried his face into his neck, still loose and gone from drink, so happy, so heavy, so intoxicated. So infatuated. Phil’s sexual drunk. “Say it.”

“That I’m yours,” Phil said. He hoped they all fucking knew. All the fractions. All the crevices. “That you’re mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> snsknene.tumblr.com


End file.
